The Necropolis Trilogy (Book 2): The Contained

by Sean Deville

  “How many?” Hudson asked, the police officers stepping back from the door.

  “Just one,” said Stan, “one of the doctors here. I saw her start to transform.” He made a point of not looking at Brian when he said this.

  “Good work, officer,” Hudson said. Stan could tell his praise was genuine. The SAS captain turned to one of his men. “Carl, I want you to get the records of everyone this doctor has treated in the last hour. I want them contained, and I want them isolated. Take these officers with you.” Hudson turned to Stan once again. “You up for that, lads?”

  “But I know her,” Brian said before Stan could answer. Hudson saw the look he had seen so many times, the evidence of someone’s emotional core about to break. Hudson stepped over to Brian and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “And I’m sorry. But now is the time for me to do what they trained me for. There’s no other way.”

  The hospital waiting room was loud, dozens of people trying to talk over each other. They had heard the whistle, and they knew what it meant. Some of them had tried to leave, only to find their way blocked by armed police who pointed gleaming machine guns at them menacingly. One man sported a head wound from where he had tried to force his way past only to find himself clubbed in the forehead by an officer who seemed to be enjoying his power a little bit too much. This wasn’t right. They had said to run if you heard the whistle.

  “You’re fucking lucky I didn’t just shoot you,” an enraged officer had almost screamed at the injured man. Carl walked into this and saw that the situation was very close to full-blown panic.

  “You two stay here,” he said to two of the officers with him. “You take your friend somewhere quiet.” That had been aimed at Stan, who led Brian away from the growing madness.

  “Can I have your attention please?” Carl said loudly to the assorted masses. Most of them ignored him. “Fucking civilians,” he whispered under his breath. Stowing his machine gun, he withdrew his sidearm and held it up to the ceiling. He knew where to fire safely, and the report boomed across the room. That shut everyone up, and a nervous hush filled the room, terrified minds shocked into submission.

  “I said can I have your attention?” Several dozen pairs of eyes looked towards him. “Thank you.” His military fatigues told them all they needed to know.

  “You need to let us out of here,” a woman shouted from the middle of the room, murmurs of agreement rippling through those assembled.

  “No,” Carl said calmly, “no, I don’t.” He lowered his gun and re-holstered it. “What I need to do is shoot anyone who tries to leave before I say they can. And that is something I am more than prepared to do.” He let that sink in.

  “You can’t do this,” someone sobbed.

  “Yes, I can, and I will. The situation is being contained. Stay quiet, stay put, and we will have you all out of here when it is safe to do so. The rules you have lived under no longer apply, and it’s important you all start to realise that.” He looked around the room. “Do we have an understanding here, people?” Most of the heads looking at him nodded in resignation. In the far corner, a child began to cry.

  “Good. Nurse?” he said to a somewhat gobsmacked hospital employee. “A word, please.” From behind where he stood, in the corridor he had just exited, multiple gunshots suddenly rang out. Carl didn’t even seem to register the noise.

  15.13PM, 17th September 2015, MI6 Building, London, UK

  They had all gone through a thick security door which Snow closed behind them.

  “If he couldn’t get through the glass, he won’t get through this,” Snow informed them. He noticed they looked monumentally un-reassured.

  “Are we under the river now?” Savage asked, slightly out of breath from the exertion. The corridor ahead of them went on for hundreds of metres. It was well lit and immaculate, the white tiles giving it an almost surgical cleanliness.

  “Yes. Once we are through to the other end, we can get out to the surface and get a ride from the secure boathouse there.” Snow had used this tunnel several times, and there would be similar tunnels that he hoped the other MI6 personnel were using to escape the collapsing building.

  “And then what?” Mackay asked. This was not where he envisioned his life to be right now. He was a scientist, not a fucking secret agent. “Once we get onto the surface, even if we do get a boat, how long before the infected get us?”

  “You let us worry about that. You just do what we tell you, okay?” said Croft. Mackay ceased walking and looked at his three companions with disbelief. All three of them stopped and looked back at him. Mackay was clearly upset.

  “Don’t fucking treat me like that. I didn’t ask for this. I’m not trained like you.”

  “I’m not treating you like anything,” said Croft. He had seen these reactions countless times before. Civilians, they were always more trouble than they were worth. “But be under no illusion, by your own admission, you are a liability. You either keep up and do as we say, or we leave you behind.”

  “But…” the man started to protest.

  “Mackay, we don’t have time for your bullshit.” Croft raised his voice ever so slightly, just enough to get the message across. “You either do as we say when we say it, or I will more than happily abandon you to your fate. Your choice.” Mackay looked like he had just been slapped, and there were almost tears in the man’s eyes. Croft turned to see Savage looking at him with a disappointed look. He ignored it and marched off back down the tunnel. He wasn’t here to make friends, and he didn’t have to justify himself to anyone. He had only one priority now, survival, and anyone who got in the way of that be damned.

  15.14PM, 17th September, Newquay Hospital, Newquay, UK

  Brian sat in the corner of the room, his head in his hands. Stan stood looking at him, not really knowing what to say. He wasn’t good with this sort of thing, had always left it to others to do the delivering bad news thing that the police were often called upon to do. Whenever emotional shit came off, Stan always tried to either ignore it or turn it into a joke, trying to deflect the discomfort it represented to him. It was one of the many reasons he wasn’t married. And now his mate needed him, and he was at a loss about what to do.

  “You know, it’s funny,” Brian said, the tears over with for now. “I kind of saw a future with her. I know I’ve only known her for a day, but there was something about her, you know?”

  “I know mate, I saw it,” Stan said. Even he had seen the connection that had formed between Simone and Brian. Being thrown together like that in such a traumatic situation could do that.

  “But it’s crazy, how could I even hope for that in this fucked-up world?”

  “Hope’s all we have, mate.”

  “And now she’s gone.”

  “I know,” Stan said again. He was still in a degree of shock himself. Simone had come so close to infecting him. He was about to say something more, only to be interrupted by a commotion outside.

  “I will shoot you if you don’t do as I say,” a voice said outside the door.

  “But I didn’t do anything,” a weaker voice argued.

  “Stay here,” Stan said to Brian, almost thankful for the interruption. No, there was no almost about it, he was glad for the relief.

  Gavin hadn’t left the hospital after being examined by Holden, because he had to wait for his arm to be put in a cast. So he had been sat in the cubicle when a demon of a man, armed to the teeth, had pulled the curtain aside and pointed a pistol right in his face. Gavin thought the man looked vaguely familiar, but the gas mask the man wore made it impossible to tell for sure. If anything, it was the uniform that was familiar.

  “Put these on,” the soldier had demanded, throwing a face mask and a face shield and a pair of nitrile gloves at him. So menacing was the soldier that Gavin did as he was ordered, and he had struggled with the gloves, every second expecting the soldier to shoot him in the head. But the guy didn’t rush him, just stood there like a rock waiting for him to fini
sh. Despite his protestations, Gavin had then been marched off at gunpoint by the soldier, three other people in a similar situation joining him in the corridor he was led along. He didn’t see the police officer fall in behind the procession.

  “In there,” the soldier said to Gavin and the other three patients Holden had seen.

  “But why?” Gavin implored. “What have we done?”

  “Maybe nothing, but that’s what we are going to find out.” Gavin was the only man amongst the four, and he opened the door to enter a small consulting room. “Probably best if you lot don’t touch each other.”

  “Why?” one of the women said almost in tears.

  “We believe one of you might be infected.” Oh shit, thought Gavin. It’s me, it has to be me. Oh no, what have I done?

  15.23PM, 17th September 2015, River Thames, London, UK

  Croft let Snow drive the boat. It had a covered wheelhouse, and could probably hold a good dozen people, which was good because they were now heading back across the river towards an iconic building that was trembling on its foundations. Snow’s radio had blared out that there were people trapped in the MI6 Building’s river entrance, and Croft had made the decision to go back and get them. Whilst survival was his primary goal now, he still felt increasing their numbers was a viable plan. Snow agreed, especially as he knew two of the people trapped, both good men, both capable. As Snow had put it, “They are people you want on your side when the shit goes down.”

  It wasn’t the plan Croft wanted, but it was the one he had. He had managed to get a call into NATO headquarters, and had tried to speak in person to General Marston. He wasn’t surprised to hear that the Chief of the Defence staff was “indisposed”. Typical, but not unsurprising. About as unsurprising as being told by the same lackey in Brussels that there were no assets, at present, to come and get Croft out of the shit hole he had been dropped in. The line had actually gone dead as the person on the other end had cut him off. Now that, he hadn’t expected, but it confirmed what he had suspected. They were on their own, expendable. So whilst Snow had got the boat ready, Croft had sent an email off over the secure network using his smart phone.

  To: General Marston

  Sir

  As you are no doubt aware, the last stronghold in London has fallen. Before it fell, I managed to establish that the virus is causing mutations in their human hosts. I was witness to one individual who had been made almost indestructible, able to take a bullet point-blank without any apparent ill effects.

  I also suspect that there are other mutations. The MI6 was not attacked by any form of conventional weaponry, and Captain Savage and I theorise that some form of telekinetic power was used to destabilise the structure to the extent of allowing ingress of the infected. From my own observations, I believe the infected were being controlled somehow, perhaps by the same power that destroyed the MI6 Building.

  We are going to rescue who we can and try and make our way out of London seeing as how we have been abandoned here to our fates. No hard feelings, General, I know how it is.

  Looking at the device he now held, he turned it off and resisted the temptation to throw it into the river, putting it into an inner pocket instead. The boat suddenly rocked, buffeted by the waves, and Croft saw that they were mere minutes away from the building they had just escaped from. Mackay had initially started to express his extreme displeasure at the rescue mission. He soon shut up when Snow had threatened to throw him over the side of the boat or put a bullet in his leg and leave him for the infected to dine on. Now the scientist sat next to Savage, almost sulking like a frightened and petulant child at the back of the boat. Croft didn’t give him a second thought; he was useless to them. Dead weight. Mackay would either do as he was ordered and have a chance to make it out of this, or he would do something stupid and end up getting himself killed. Either option was fine with Croft. In the world he lived in, you relied on yourself as much as those around you.

  “You don’t approve of the way I spoke to Mackay,” Croft said to Savage almost absently.

  “He’s not used to having orders barked at him,” she said, defending him. Croft looked at her; even with what had just happened, she still looked amazing to his eyes. It was a shame, if it hadn’t been for all this, they could have had something together. He put that out of his mind now because really there was no hope for anything like that anymore.

  “True, but I can’t be babysitting. He’s either on board or he’s dead weight. You see that, right?”

  “Yes,” Savage said solemnly. “I think I’m finally coming to terms with how quickly everything has fallen apart. To be honest, I’m still trying to get my head around it.”

  “Aren’t we all,” said Croft. He turned back to look at the building just as a huge explosion ripped through the top third of the building.

  “Wow,” Snow said. “Glad I wasn’t in there for that.” The radio crackled.

  “We need evac ASAP. Where we are is becoming unstable,” a distressed voice implored. Snow increased power to the engines and forged the boat on towards its destination.

  Owen sacrificed some of his army, safe in the knowledge that he could always get more. He didn’t lead them into battle, but stayed well back, safe from the snipers whose shots began to diminish as the building began to slowly crumble in on itself. He also stayed away from Rasheed. Owen had taken an instant dislike to the man, for so many reasons. Firstly, he was a Paki, and he hated Paki’s. Fucking Mussie as well—what was there to like about that? But those were just phantoms, excuses that he formed to hide the truth. The real reason he didn’t like Rasheed he tried so hard to deny to himself. It was that Rasheed also had power. Which meant that Owen wasn’t alone, wasn’t as powerful as he thought he was, wasn’t as unique. Which really meant that perhaps this city wasn’t his after all. There could be dozens, maybe hundreds out there like him, which meant he might have a fight on his hands. Yeah, Owen could control the infected, but this guy, this guy could kill them in a heartbeat. This guy could take a shot to the abdomen and fucking heal it. He was a fucking threat, a danger that needed to be dealt with. And how many other threats were there lurking in this dying metropolis?

  In his mind’s eye, he saw his warriors storming across the bridge, saw them scaling the walls and the fences around the MI6 Building. Through doors and windows destroyed by Rasheed’s power, they gained entry into one of the country’s most secure buildings and unleashed mayhem. He saw them run through corridors, free to act at last against an enemy that had held out for too long. Dozens of them fell before bullets and knives, but hundreds more took their place. And whenever the path became blocked, that blockage was ripped apart by an invisible force. Owen reckoned he would have the building under his control within thirty minutes tops. He just hoped there would be a building left, because he really wanted to look inside, and the way Rasheed was going, there wouldn’t be anything left but a huge pile of bricks and broken glass.

  Snow pulled the boat up to the dock and noticed the half a dozen people waiting for them. Peter was with them, radio in hand, and Croft stepped to the edge of the boat and barked at them.

  “If you’re coming, move your combined arses.” Seven people stepped off the dock onto his vessel, and he was disappointed to see only two of them had weapons.

  “Thanks for coming back for us,” Peter said to Croft as he stepped onto the boat. Croft was surprised to see the only woman in the group was wearing a flight suit, and raised an eyebrow at Peter. Where the hell had she come from?

  “Who’s this?” he asked. The woman, realising Croft was talking about her, stopped and flung him a salute.

  “Captain Claire Stirling, United States Air Force.” Croft flung her a half-arsed salute back, and saw a smile spread across the pilots’ face. “Permission to come aboard, sir?”

  “Granted,” said Croft.

  According to Peter, he had been on the roof when Stirling had fallen out of the sky by parachute like an avenging angel. She had very nearly ove
rshot her landing, and it was probably more luck than skill that she hadn’t toppled off the edge of the building. Peter had seen the aircraft fall from the sky, but she had descended from him out of his line of sight and had almost scared him half to death. Her landing had been hard, and Savage had seen the way Clarice was limping, favouring one leg, which was why Clarice was now sat at the back of the boat, having her ankle examined. But how the hell had she come to be here?

  Snow pulled the boat away from the dock, disappointed that he had been unable to rescue any more survivors. Out on the Thames, several other boats moved away from their position, so it at least looked like some others had gotten away. But where would they all go? They had no refuge now, most government and military facilities in the city either abandoned or compromised. They needed somewhere that was accessible by water, somewhere that would give them a chance to rest, regroup, and plan. Then a thought came to him, and his eyes brightened. That might just work, assuming the person he was thinking of had survived this long. But of course he had survived. It would take more than a mere apocalypse to kill a man like Alexei. And even better was the fact that they could get to where Alexei lived directly from the river.

  Durand sat at the front of the boat, his madness seething. He didn’t talk to anyone, just viewed those around him with suspicious eyes. He had managed to escape Fabrice’s clutches only to wind up here amongst a pack of wolves. Still wearing his white lab coat, now marred with dirt and grime, he fingered the hidden gun that he had planned to use to kill Savage and Croft and whoever else got in his way. But all his potential victims were armed now, and he knew this was not the time to take his vengeance. And was it even worth it? All his research was lost. The discovery he was so close to making was probably wandering around inside the MI6 Building, free to do whatever the fuck it wanted. Even though he had witnessed what Fabrice had become, no part of Victor Durand felt any kind of responsibility. All he felt was hate, and it seethed within him, his temples throbbing, any form of reason long since stripped from him. He had lived his life for significance, for recognition, and now he no longer had any of that. It had all been taken from him, and in his mind, there was only one person to blame…Savage.